XVIII

buddy,

since you asked:

its just fine by me

if i dont exist

hootie hooo

i have a big blackness

wrapped in furs

if i look

over my shoulder

and see the dogs

slobbering through the fog

slipping on snow

you can bet your life

that i'll run

we caught herr nazi

writing his memoirs,

all that they said was

"missing my buddys"

i see my buddys

rolling over and over

but like most things

they dribble away and away

XVII

babies of spring

i chuckled rose buds
and i meandered

very zero'd
could you peep my ruin?

XVI

Yesterdays agenda was shit, today

I ride in evil’s thundering asshole

Brownfaced, I peer out at the world below,

I’m here with morning’s rot,

Around in pruning day,

In brown showers I drink red wines

And sancho panzer tank my way

Through all sorts of ravening maws

And I swing my rump

To the gasps of the magpies caws

In what can only be called

‘the dance of agony’

jiggling, jiggling

squishing through brown ballrooms

trumpets and brass

dressed up like a colonel

red uniform and billowing mustache

I swing ladylike from the arms of saints

Into the yellowing arms of demons,

And hear the faint farts of tomorrow

XV

my love,

i tried to find you a souvenir

think about your feet rotting

flap your arms around all day

i was gonna buy you a gas mask

everything closes too early

i dont speak other languages

and dusk stays medieval and clammy

mourning songs, mourning songs

what a heap of shit

i lost my map,

o fck

XIV

gymnastics 'И'

The hapless fleece had been free, or bereft, of dreams and nightmares for a long time. On a white sort of morning, he sat at a small wooden table, resting his head on one of his hands and looking out of a window, where there was a field covered in snow. The field was all white and very flat. He imagined many hapless fleeces hopping around on it and wondered what the snow would look like afterwards. Then he was made afraid by the thought of all those rampaging hapless fleeces, jumping about and ruining the snow. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that he would forever be a greased cherub, wiping his pink face in his gray rags. But sometimes his arms and legs and mouth would do different things, like many people were trying to use them instead of the hapless fleece himself. These musings distressed the hapless fleece so thoroughly that he stood up from the table with an abrupt jolt that knocked his chair over and began to wretch. He reached into his mouth and down his throat, feeling around inside his guts with his fingers and pulled out a dream, or a memory that had been collected by a small group of people. It lay sopping damply on the table in a ball, he unfolded it and read it:

“Some year came, and they rolled into the world with piteous squeals and grimaces. In years that bounced by like shiny baubles, they dried their tears and then let them drip out again; for some time they sucked milk, then they let soft food dribble down their throats or their faces, giggling and clapping, or choking and weeping. Their food became solid and they ate it with their left and right hands until they picked up little plastic utensils. They tottered around and piddled in sandboxes, making cooing noises. They rolled around on tricycles, becoming brave, innocently warlike, wooping and hooting. They were very good and uncomprehending friends. They smiled at each other, feeling vaguely curious about what the other was. They poked at frogs and believed certain places to be haunted or inhabited by foul spirits. They were wee seraphim made of sand; sometimes they stared at each other from under blonde bangs, one had straight hair and the other curly.
In later years, their hair shriveled until it became coarse brown and they experienced the wash of guilt, shame, and envy. They felt these experiences and wanted to itch their bodies all over or jump in deep water to make those things go away. They remembered joy, sorrow and terror too, but those had always been there. They thought about certain things, like when they stood in department stores with their mothers and looked at many different pairs of pants, wondering how to decide which would be bought. They sat in classrooms of public schools for years, walked in hallways with colored walls featuring patterns and later they walked in hallways that were painted a tepid green. The chairs that they sat on became larger and less brightly colored until they were iron gray chairs that an adult could sit in. They sprouted vicious acne and looked at girls who absentmindedly clicked pens on the front of their teeth, girls who had bright hair and dressed in bright colors. They wondered what those girls were like and tried to make the girls understand them or reveal their smiles. In the winters and summers they neared the girls, who looked healthy in winter coats and bathing suits, but bristled or grew disgusted when approached. Of course, they were disappointed when their efforts did not succeed, but each time they suffered a failure, would stand in the wake of defeat silently and smile shakily at each other. Behind these smiles loomed something that was droning and purple.
Soon they became frustrated with new things and things that didn’t want them, they raged in traditional confusion and lashed out at the things scattered around them with feeble motions; they were seen stalking around with their faces pointed down. Later, they went to universities, because they understood that that one should do that. They understood that at university they could drink alcohol and hang lewd posters in their dormitories; that they wouldn’t have to be themselves anymore because they would meet many new people that had never known them before. And then later, after they got their degrees they would get a job and a house. Of course, they were sad to leave each other, but they did. At their universities they made great efforts towards certain things and thought that it was great to be in a large city. At night they could often be seen throwing up in bushes by themselves.
Separated, they individually developed interests and decided individually that they were individuals whose individuality must be known to the world. They decided that being themselves, with their own souls, that no other person had known or could comprehend, that contained such riches of feelings and thoughts, they could not simply live and die without one day standing upon pedestals, adorned with wreaths. They deafened themselves with their own squeals, oinks, and braying. They could have used their voices in song, strove to create new noises, scribbled on papers, passionately wielded brushes and pens, searched for chemical reactions with different vials, examined the sustainability of certain foodstuffs, searched through endless series of numbers in equations; the specifics are of small importance.
They pursued the hermetic isolation of ascetics, sought the illumination rumored to drift in with prolonged solitude. But they remained unrewarded; they regurgitated their prophecies with words that lopsidedly hobbled through the air a short distance before wheezing and dropping to the floor, where they lay like piles of sawdust. Dully understanding that they themselves had fallen short of their expectations, they made claims such as, “I have suffered for the truth”, “My talent has gone unrecognized and the world is unjust”, and “I have been ruined by those who are jealous of me”. They stood in front of mirrors and held their fists up in the air, they had said, “I will persist! I will triumph!”
But they did not persist or triumph, they sat alone in their respective cities, which had grown gloomy and sinister, and despaired in the snow and in the heat. After some years, they grew wilted and so quiet; their vision became coated by a permanent film of grayness. At first they lay on their beds cocooned in wispy threads of boredom, with their defeat flapping in far corners of their minds like ragged ships wrecked beyond salvation. Time passed until their isolation blossomed into the terror of the forsaken, and bruised knots began to appear under their flesh, the skin throbbing purple above the knots. In anguished horror, they rushed to places where people were to be found and implored the people to help them, but their appearance and smell caused the people alarm, and the people shook off their pleading hands, kicking them and insulting them.
Did they think about death? Of course, but in many cases those musings remain nothing but thoughts; so they only moaned and crawled on their bellies through desolate landscapes, leaving green trails behind them. On parts of their bodies, mangy fur glistened; fur that stuck together and was colored like sap in some places, elsewhere it was hard and black. On other parts of their flesh, scales formed; scales that were of yellow and brown. They grew tails and their eyes pruned into tiny pieces of filth. They crawled around during the day and made choking noises at night. They crawled into a mound of trash and burrowed tunnels. One day their tunnels met and they found each other in recognition. They embraced and then kissed each other with their beaks, and sucked the soft and shining white parts of each other’s bodies, feeling the edges of their scales rubbing together and their hair mixing together, they groaned and excreted thick fluids onto each other. They crawled around each other and crawled into each other, laughing frothily and bubbling spit. They slithered around and ate nameless soft objects that they found in the stomach of the trash. They quickly became blind; their nostrils became identical to their eyes, and forgot what they were and what the weather was like. In terrible rainstorms they could be seen sitting quietly on the top of the trash heap, with their spines bristling and their feathers shivering in the rain, their features a blankness of confusion. In terrible snowstorms little mounds of filthy snow, brown and piss yellow, could be seen on top of the trash heap.
From time to time people would come to the trash heap, vagrants or gaggles of children. The people would go around the trash heap picking things off of it or playing games, but never bothering to think that anything might be underneath the trash.
They talked to each other at night when they were rubbing and licking each other. Following their embraces, thick stringy fluids would come off of their bodies and they would collect it in buckets. They stored the buckets of their fluids in a chamber of the trash heap and named it after their hearts and themselves. When the sun was rising they would lie by the buckets, resting their heads against them and caressing them with their padded paws. At night they left the trash heap with some of their buckets and crawled around on the streets, hearing everything, hearing movement bounce off of surfaces. They splashed their fluids on sleeping people’s bodies and faces, as well as the peoples’ things. They sailed enormous distances and drenched sprawling lands with their fluids. They roved around and found their own holiness with each other and their fluid. When they dropped the liquid onto somebody or something, it looked to them at if the thing first turned brown and sticky like a rotting fruit, then crystallized into sap, yellowing and hard, then melted into something wonderful and bright so that they had to shield their eyes. And everything seemed very bright to them, in spite of their blindness. For many nights they spread their sluice over different things and returned to their trash heap to rejoice, to rub their tongues over each other.
But some year came, much in the same manner as the others. It was then that time brought with it the gift of stagnancy, the gift given before death. They began to feel very tired. Soon they stopped spreading the fluid, it congealed and reeked like burning flesh in its buckets until it was eaten by dust and mold and dried up. They squatted in the depths of the trash heap and watched their left and right hands. They lay on their backs with their mouths hanging open; sometimes underneath heaps of trash and sometimes on top of it, depending on the trash heap’s shifts in movement that came with wind or rain. The sky would float by in its different colors. Crusts began to form around their mouths and their eyes had vanished entirely.
They were lying on some flank of the trash heap’s body like this when one day, one of the vagabonds came into the trash heap to look for pieces of metal that he could sell. The vagabond pawed through some pieces of things, dissatisfied, he ascended to the top of the heap in search of more valuable material. From the summit, the vagabond looked around at the yellowing dry heaps of fluttering trash, and somewhere near the bottom, in an obscure corner, saw them. They were lying side by side, propped up by clusters of rubbish and smeared things. The vagabond bristled with fear and dropped the things he had been holding and fled clumsily down the walls of the pile and away from the trash heap.”

XIII

GYMNASTICS 'ИИ'

The hapless fleece shifted, feeling bored, and hiccupped out a little cough. But he read on:

“Stories and gossip are sometimes more likely to become fables and legends when their origination is to be found in the dampest of mud. The vagrants huddle amongst themselves and discuss the thing that was seen in the trash heap. Then, we might say, one of the vagrants will find himself drunk, and recounts the story to a reluctant listener, who is nonetheless, a listener. The story bobs down other avenues and up to other levels of buildings, first floating listlessly, unimportantly, carefree. But it begins rolling and writhing, bigger and faster, with a thick body spiking with electricity, until it roars at all of the people so loudly that it may be ignored no longer.

The people moved sheepishly, disconcerted at having to go about their business amongst the vapors emitted by the story. When such a cloud develops, an individual always seems to materialize from the gaseous swirls within and the people suddenly found themselves listening to the shouts of a severe woman. It must have been as it was, as if such women, with their insatiable desire for morality, for justice, for the preservation of society’s fabric, are spawned by stories. Either way, the severe woman rose up from obscurity and barked to the people, backed by that sentiment known as righteous indignation. She became covered in badges, pins, and medals. Her face hardened into a beautiful, noble and cruel shape and a laurel rested upon her hair. She exhorted the people to remove these offensive ‘they’ characters from the public trash heap. The public trash heap was no place for ‘them’, 'they' must be reformed and shaped anew! It was for their own good, and everybody else’s good! She was severe and black with the righteous indignation, demonic in her authority, but like all such people, she spoke from her innate sense of justice and was to be obeyed.

And after all, it was out of love that she moved the people against ‘them’! It was all for love! At the bottom of everything, nothing could be found but love and death to move them, and so that severe lady righteous indignation and infinite love mounted the charge, the people rushed forth in a wonderful unified, bleeding heart of unification to the trash heap, where those lost lambs lay in their squalor.

The parade of liberators tore through the trash heap, joyous and righteous, laughing and smiling, awaiting the moment when ‘they’ would be located amongst the molding, rusting rubbish. Men blew trumpets and pretty girls in billowing dresses danced around holding flags. Singing songs of freedom, they all dug together. The woman of righteous indignation stood atop a pillar shielding her eyes from the sun, watching the project with great attentiveness. How heroic, strong and beautiful she was! She shouted orders to the groups of searchers, suggesting they dig in different areas or that they dismantle untouched pillars of rubbish beneath which ‘they’ might be buried.

In good time, a cheer more powerful than the rest rippled through the searchers and from her post, the severe woman of righteous indignation saw some little forms being tossed up into the air repeatedly. Some strong men had found ‘them’ and, overcome by joy and compassion, had hoisted ‘their’ inert bodies upon their brawny shoulders and were vaulting them into the air with great gusto. ‘They’, hideous and miserable in the bright sunlight, flopped like noodles as 'they' soared through the air and landed with squishes into the arms of the strong men. ‘They’ were brought before the pedestal of the severe woman, where ‘they’ squatted before her, blinking and smiling dumbly. From on high, the severe woman, who had rescued ‘them’ from rot with her infinite love of mankind, pronounced them forgiven and blessed by the people. ‘They’ scratched at the sand confusedly and peered around like extinct birds, but there was no time for anything to be said before the people popped in a histrionic gasp of joy and swarmed all over ‘them’, ripping off ‘their’ feathers and scales, chopping off their tails and smashing their beaks. The brass and horns boomed triumphantly, the people swirled in ecstasies of love and lively drums thumped as ‘they’ were restored.

The people retreated from them when the rehabilitation was complete, leaving them standing and smiling shakily. By then it was dusk, and the severe woman of righteous indignation went away, followed by all of the people. The rehabilitated walked to the houses that they had grown up in, where the dusty bones of their parents lay in the dining rooms. They went somewhere, it doesn’t really matter where, put on some of the clothes that were to be found in closets and went out to ask for jobs. They were given jobs, very nice jobs. Eventually they found some wives and everything was very nice. They celebrated holidays and looked forward to teaching their children how to play board games and admired the weather of changing seasons and dreamt about buying new cars but worried about what their wives would say and it is all very nice. In the streets people sometimes march and at night unknown animals shiver in the dark.”

The hapless fleece guffawed, slapped himself in the face and wondered if he could stick his head up his ass, then he crumpled the paper up again and swallowed it.

XII

soviet teal,

its these early hours,

that are for me and these homeless pups

i'm from the severe, severe north

its fine! its great!

you can find trinkets in every hiccup of slush

XI

Ж zsh:

troubadours! troubadours!

remember that i live
sprawled out like earthen pots

leaving remains of my
diet on the back steps

Ц tsz:

if i had a good friend

he'd be a greased cherub

we would stab each other

with knives wrapped in towels

Ю yooh:

look alive out there now!
gnashing your teeth wont do

you'll shit your pants
until your nails fall out!

Щ shh:

better to keep quiet

when in smiling ruins

my own violence sinks

and grows fungal tumors

Э eh:

always on the old beach

rubbing my snotty sleeve

my complaints still ring like

the clacking of false teeth

troubadours! troubadours!

X

You may remember my good friend, the hapless fleece. When he wakes up in the dusty morning, or in the thin crevices of night, he looks at his hand; he looks at his hand and sometimes thinks that it is the hand of a corpse. Has a dead mannlich jerked himself from beneath his grave to rest beside my good friend, the hapless fleece? This is sign that we are not doing well, that certain ways of sleep have led us, like the sneering face of a procuress in the wash of orange lamps, to dens filled with moss green pillows of disease, where hangs a terror with no ancestry.

Ô, but the hapless fleece! How his peculiar and swelling heart must sweat panic!

He looks at the dead hand; it lies peacefully on the pillow next to his head. He examines with the delicacy of a ribboned girl, the great blue vein in the center of the hand; the vein that is in his hand and all hands above the earth, thick and bloated, squirming quietly. The vein is deflated like the unknown remains of something lying in a puddle. It lies peacefully on the pillow next to his head and the hapless fleece finds himself returning to days when he stared at a river from betwixt the rusting green beams of the bridge looking over it, with his eyes melting onto his cheeks, with his hands dully purple.

Pull your covers over your eyes, Ô miserable one, never return home!

He stares at the little bones of the dead hand, the little bones like translucent threads of silk, with their silent geography, and finds himself cast back to days when he spread his body on the sharp grass and coughed bright green stars of snot, and leaked grey drooling vomit onto the ground, while red ants crawled from their tunnels, over his hands, and the savage whisper of mosquitos hung in the air. Wrap yourself tighter, Ô bored one, the air in Florida sags like wet bread and will stifle your coughs! The dead hand does not stir; it sleeps and sleeps with complacent smiles, and the hapless fleece looks at the tight ashen surface of skin that wraps the hand as a spider wraps a fly, examining the tiny ravines splitting across the skin and at the hairs that jutted from them to hang languidly;

the skin of the dead hand like something that would change colors, would begin to ooze cruel odors and be draped slovenly across the surface of wherever it came to lay like greasy strands of hair;

the skin of the hand that would change colors, begin to ooze cruel odors and be draped slovenly across the surface of wherever it came to lay like strands of greasy hair and the hapless fleece will begin to wonder whose hand it must be:

shut it up under the pillow and do not look at it anymore.

IX

recognize the god, old earth

http://gaiatincture.blogspot.com

VIII

I am alone.
I am not sleeping.
I am not sleeping alone.



j.S.s

VI

This long buffalo must bend to fit into the room and snorts its charged breath against the automan its charged tangle of brown fur barbs and sparks like exposed lightbulbs and lightning coming nearer. Black clouds bust the windows and crash in shouting thunder at my petrification while the hot buffalo stinks and hoofs holes in the ground. He bucks, his eyes glow red as he thrusts them into mine, contorting to level his power at me and demands. The scorch of the lightning flashes against my face. The scorch is bottled in the freezer. The buffalo twists his purple scowl and blows living, wretched breath on my face, his horns gleam dimly in the violence of the cracks and he demands we split open the freezer and douse the flaming wicks licking up our spines. Lightbulbs shatter again and I mince the pieces, sweep them into a highball glass and pour eight fingers. The buffalo grows a size and the walls start to shudder, lightning swelling and pounding against them. He mauls the glass, takes it highball and all into his insatiable maw and chomps. Purple blood beads the thin lining of his purple mouth, I kneel and pull myself before him. The black clouds rumble and throw molten maelstrom harsh around the room, I wrap my arms around his head and squeeze the beast's face against mine, licking the blood from his tongue, fitting his jaw around my delicate, human kneck. I am drenced in spit and purple blood, lubricated for any mortal passage. His jaws mightily and slowly clench. The lightning begins to quiet. His fangs prick seven spots in my white flesh. A bolt strikes and ignites the floor. His tooth saws agains the mineral deposit, my spine. I am candle, he chomps down, and through, breaks my wick, saves me from the fire.

Burns Usher's house burns
Crinkles wallpaper
Crackles floorboords & beams
Bend, forests falter in face of
Fire. Me, ruin. He, ruin. We, ruin ruins ruins.
Pelt. Just pelt.

J.s.S

V

If you’d care to think of it now:

A forest made of hair

An undergrowth so dense

No hound can bay through it

or ,

The kids giggle quietly

But you cant see them;

They snuggle in shadows

But their eyes hold milk

That drips amid the trees,

That, you can see.

Their bodies’ sheen

Like the oiliness of a magpie;

They flit through the forest

Like droves of magpies

Of magpies,

I was once told:

1 for despair

2 for joy

3 for a girl

4 for a boy

5 for silver

6 for gold

7 seven for a secret never to be told

Secrets and truths

Wan and green

Buried like sunken forests,

Their forms fan out in the tide

Until little baby darkness

Collapses in pieces

Pierced by light

So terrible

I don’t care to think of it,

Face crusted over with sleep;

No crown rends my dull brow

All thorns are dulled by quiet

And God lay there:

With the white languor of a woman

Expecting neutral company

Or guests that would hover

And say nothing, but smile

And look upwards

God was covered in petals;

The roses and violets of horror

But smiled as if nothing was wrong

These days

Which we forever think about

These days

No forest remains

But a beach:

Licked and sucked by the ocean

The beach like a set of feeble gums

To suck and slurp at the ocean;

The beach like a sick mouth

Hanging open, yawning

The kids crashed together

Gnashed their teeth

Burning in garish light

Lolling in the frothing foam

Of that dissolving strand

Smashing one another

Like a fool banging symbols

God sat alone in the dunes

Smiling; his legs crossed

And back bent:

He might be watching

The kids rolling in the sea

But it might only be

Oil shining on a puddle

And if the kids

Hurt so deeply

Why did God smile

When they ran to him

Out of the sea

Up the shore

Little paws held up

With their bird’s confusion

And absurd sorrow?

He didn’t understand

Or didn’t care to think of it,

He just smiled

with eyes like stained glass

The kids ran on the beach

And God raised his head

Slowly and ponderously

Like a great dog

Watching the distant interest

Drift across those sands

God rose and followed them

The sands slid from beneath him

God stumbled and staggered

When he reached the kids

They were squatting

In the carrion sand

Their faces to the dirt

They dug the sand

Until brine began

Pooling in the hole

it made a sound like

"*suck*"

The kids raised their faces to God,

To say: "Nothing gets out alive"

Breathing a chaos stronger than creation,

Their faces true bone carvings of hatred

They held shovels in their hands

And held roses in their teeth

They beat him until he was dead

And dragged his body to where

The waves lipped the shore

I don’t care about any of it

I cant be bothered at all

Today I wont wake up

All parts of me flowing away

Draped in slithering silks

I am marvelously pomp

Will I work today?

No, I will only smoke

The moonlight sifted down complacently

God’s body lay in the lapping tide

Years passed and it sank into the sand

There are barks of thunder

And invisible gasping clouds

Surely it is a time for umbrellas

Sincerely,

Jamie